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2012-02-25 17:01:29|  分类: 闲看英美剧 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

  下载LOFTER 我的照片书  |

  Van Gogh  Painted With Words

纪录片:梵高.画语人生 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝 
纪录片:梵高.画语人生 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝 
纪录片:梵高.画语人生 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝 
纪录片:梵高.画语人生 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝  
纪录片:梵高.画语人生 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝 
纪录片:梵高.画语人生 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝 
纪录片:梵高.画语人生 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝  

The myth of Vincent Van Gogh, the mad artist has captivated us for over a century now.

Ignored during his lifetime, after his death, his paintings finally surfaced, or rather exploded, capturing the world in vibrant, vivid colours.

But his work has often been eclipsed by his reputation as a madman.


I won't hide from you that I would prefer to die than cause and bear so much trouble. To suffer without complaining is the only lesson that has to be learned in this life.


We are pilgrims in the earth and strangers. We come from afar and we are going far.

The journey of our life goes from the loving breast of our Mother on Earth to the arms of our Father in heaven.


Money troubles - ha! And poverty have something to do with it.

Now you say, from such and such a time you've been going downhill, you've faded away, you've done nothing. Now that being so, what's to be done?


I've learned to measure and to see and to attempt the broad outlines, etc, so that what used to seem to me to be desperately impossible is now gradually becoming possible. Drawing is the root of everything.


It's of a relative indifference to me whether I live a long or short time.

I'm concerned with the world only in that I have a certain...obligation, or duty,

if you like, having walked the world for 30 years to leave a souvenir of gratitude in the form of paintings or drawings.


Nature, always begins by resisting the draughtsman.

It sometimes resembles what Shakespeare calls taming the shrew, to conquer the opposition through perseverance, willy-nilly. If I succeed in putting some warmth and love into the work, then it will find friends.

Although Vincent was able to put love into his work, it was proving difficult to find in his life.


From the beginning of this love I've felt that unless I threw myself into it unreservedly, committing myself to it whole-heartedly, fully and forever, then there would be absolutely no chance for me. But does it matter to me if the chance is smaller or larger? I mean, must I, can I, take that into account when I love? No, no thought to the winnings. One loves because one loves.


To me, she is beautiful. And I find in her exactly what I need. Life has given her a drubbing, and sorrow, sorrow and adversity have left their mark. She posed for my very best drawing, Sorrow. I want to make drawings that move some people. Sorrow is a small beginning.

At least it contains something straight from my own feelings. I couldn't draw Sorrow if I didn't feel it myself.

This other one, Roots, is some tree roots in sandy ground. I've tried to imbue the landscape with the same sentiment as the figure. In all of nature, trees for instance, I see expression and soul.


I see no way of describing the countryside to you as it should be done, because words fail me. What I think is the best life is a life made up of long years of being in touch with nature out of doors.


Alone, one is sure to perish. Only with another can one be saved.

The very best and most effective medicine is still love and a home.


…but the animal has a human history and, although it's a dog, a human soul, and one with finer feelings at that - capable of feeling what people say about him, which an ordinary dog can't do.


When the weavers weave those fabrics, they try, as you know, to get the very brightest colours in balance against one another in the multicoloured tartans, so that, rather than the fabric clashing, the overall effect is harmonious from a distance.

You have to go straight to Eugene Delacroix to find such an orchestration of colours.

I'm talking about the blue, green sketch with red and purple and touches of lemon yellow.

It speaks a symbolic language through colour itself.


Art is too important, it seems to me, to be treated so cavalierly.

But perhaps van Rappard had missed the point.

I want people to say of my work, that man feels deeply, that man feels subtly, despite my so-called coarseness or perhaps precisely because of it. Do you understand?

It seems pretentious to talk like this now, but that's why I want to push on!


First, painting from life in the mirror, he dreams, dreams, and his brush begins to paint his own portrait again, but from memory, and his expression is sadder.


I've made a series of colour studies in painting simply flowers, seeking oppositions of blue with orange, red and green, yellow and violet, seeking the broken and neutral tones to harmonise brutal extremes.


It's as if there are two people in him -the one, marvellously gifted, sensitive and gentle, and the other, self-loving and unfeeling.


I want to begin by telling you that this part of the world seems to me as beautiful as Japan for the clearness of the atmosphere and the charm of the colour effects. Pale orange sunsets, making the fields almost blue. Glorious yellow suns.


Painting and screwing around a lot aren't compatible -it weakens the brain, and that's what's really so dammed annoying. I'd prefer to be cloisted up like the monks.

Free to go to the brothel, just like the monks, or to the wine shop, if my heart chooses to!

In my painting of the night cafe, I've tried to express the idea that the cafe is the place where you can ruin yourself, go mad, commit crimes.


I wouldn't exactly have chosen madness had there been a choice, but once one has something like that, one can't catch it any more.


What a beautiful land and what beautiful blue and what a sun.

So then my brush goes between my fingers as if it were the bow on a violin and absolutely for my pleasure.


All of them have a power of colour which you hadn't attained before, which in itself is a rare quality, but you've gone further. But how hard your mind must have worked and how you endangered yourself to the extreme point where vertigo is inevitable.

Let me quietly continue my work. If it's that of a madman, well then, too bad.

Then I can't do anything about it.


What characterises his works as a whole is its excess of strength, of nervousness, its violence of expression. His colour we know already, unbelievably dazzling with this metallic, jewel-like quality. In his categorical affirmation of character of things, a powerful figure is revealed –masculine, daring, very often brutal yet sometimes ingeniously delicate.


When one blind man leads another, don't they both fall into the ditch?


Since my illness, the feelings of loneliness takes hold of me in the fields in such a fearsome way that I hesitate to go out. With time, though, that will change.

It's only in front of the easel while painting that I feel a little of life.


They're immense stretches of wheat fields under turbulent skies...and I made a point of trying to express sadness, extreme loneliness.


Vincent said, "This is the way I would like to go." And half an hour later, he had his way.

Life weighed so heavily upon him. But as always happens, everyone is now full of praise for his talent.

Vincent wanted everyone to understand his art, he wanted it, he said, "To say something consoling, like music."


Van Gogh only sold a few artworks in his life.

Today, they're worth millions -ironic, maybe, but Vincent seemed to know all along what would happen.

People pay a lot for the work when the painter himself is dead.




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